


...Somewhere...

by Electricviolinist



Series: Void [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, reference to Bondage, reference to bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I used to imagine it every time you threw me against a wall or something,” Stiles told him. “Not so much fucking as kissing when you were there. Your face is beautiful.”<br/>Derek chewed without relish. He was not looking at Stiles, with extreme commitment.<br/>“But when I was alone, I had these fantasies. They were totally adolescent. I’m not even sure they were physically possible.”<br/>“Stop,” Derek grumbled.<br/>“I used to imagine you holding me against a wall, my feet wouldn’t even touch the ground.”<br/>“Stiles,” Derek was growling now. Danger signs. They sent a tiny thrill through Stiles. A little sign that maybe he wasn’t dead.<br/>“You’d have me wrap my legs around your waste, and then you’d start on my neck.”<br/>Derek threw his plate to the floor.<br/>“Stop talking,” he growled, furiously, “Stop talking!”</p><p>A second day with the Hales. </p><p>Still one of my most messed up works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Theo would tie him to a table leg, he’d hold it close. He’d embrace it; a solid thing he could hold onto. More constant than Theo, harder than Malia. But it was still insubstantial. The wrong shape. Too thin, too weak. It was barely enough to anchor him to the present. The wood’s vicious angles beneath his fingers were better than nothing though. He’d press his face against the ridges, rub his legs against the corners to cause himself a bearable kind of pain.

Whenever he was bound, he’d pull against whatever bound him. It was the best way to make himself still. Theo was good with knots. He always bound Stiles efficiently, so his hands would be motionless. It helped Stiles to stay grounded, in a way that he couldn’t remember being.

It was like he wasn’t him anymore. He was less. A possession. A thing.

He could sleep upright when tied to the table leg.

He liked being tied to chairs less. Being tied sat to one was nowhere near enough. In that position he could simply forget he was tied up, and he would get restless. Being tied the wrong way up was better, his arse in the air, staring at the seat. It was humiliating, but possessions didn’t have pride or vanity. Humiliation was useless to someone incapable of human decency.

“Stiles.”

The voice was soft, kind, out of place. It shouldn’t have been part of Stiles’ existence. Stiles was a spoil of war, the property of Theo, there was no way that voice…

He opened his eyes. Derek’s beautiful pale eyes blinked at him, and his heart broke. He lifted a hand to the stubbly check. It felt real beneath his fingers.

“I miss you,” he told the figment of his imagination.

Derek’s exquisite eyes blinked, and there was panic in them that made Stiles smile. Even his imaginary Derek would be confused by warmth and honesty.

“I brought you some food,” said Derek, pulling roughly away from the hand and determinedly ignoring it.

That movement made Stiles realise he wasn’t asleep and dreaming. He wasn’t tied to any of Theo’s furniture, he wasn’t waiting for Theo to return. He was in a hotel or motel with Derek Hale and his creepy uncle.

He sat up too fast. Derek was by his side, eyes wide with concern.

“Hey, it’s OK,” Derek told him, “There’s no hurry. No one’s going to hurt you.”

He pressed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles couldn’t help but look at that hand. Derek almost never touched him except in violence. And except when he rescued Stiles.

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles asked.

Derek took his hand back and shrugged helplessly. He began moving plates around, placing one on the bed beside Stiles. It held a couple of sandwiches, apparently made by Derek. There were also some apples and bananas in a bowl nearby, and some chips in a bag not far away.

“What do you want from me?” Stiles asked.

“Nothing,” said Derek. “Eat.”

“I’m a monster,” said Stiles. Though he’d said it before and Derek hadn’t accepted it.

“No,” said Derek.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Stiles asked.

Derek’s sandwich jarred on the way to his mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Stiles. “I wanted you to, you know. Before.”

“Eat your food,” said Derek, pushing his sandwich into his mouth, in a forced motion that didn’t quiet seem to be eating.

“I used to imagine it every time you threw me against a wall or something,” Stiles told him. “Not so much fucking as kissing when you were there. Your face is beautiful.”

Derek chewed without relish. He was not looking at Stiles, with extreme commitment.

“But when I was alone, I had these fantasies. They were totally adolescent. I’m not even sure they were physically possible.”

“Stop,” Derek grumbled.

“I used to imagine you holding me against a wall, my feet wouldn’t even touch the ground.”

“Stiles,” Derek was growling now. Danger signs. They sent a tiny thrill through Stiles. A little sign that maybe he wasn’t dead.

“You’d have me wrap my legs around your waste, and then you’d start on my neck.”

Derek threw his plate to the floor.

“Stop talking,” he growled, furiously, “Stop talking!”

Stiles searched his face. He didn’t want to run or anything, he just wanted to feel. Maybe Derek would shove him against a wall, then when Stiles eventually went back to Theo he could say it was fine, Derek treated him as he deserved. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been with Theo. The punishment had continued.

Stiles opened his legs.

Derek stared at him like he was a creature he’d never seen.

“I’m not… I … Stiles…”

Derek was never lost for words. Derek said things as they were, shoved your head into steering wheels or threatened you against a wall. This was wrong.

“Hit me,” said Stiles.

“No!” Derek cried.

“Hurt me,” Stiles tried again. “I’m wrong. If you can’t control me, give me back to Theo.”

Derek muttered a swear word, still staring intently at Stiles’ face.

“Please,” Stiles whispered.

He held Derek’s eye contact as long as he could, pleading with his eyes. Derek had to hurt him, or he’d fall apart, had to tie him down or he’d drift away, had to rape him or he’d forget how to breathe.

“I will never hurt you,” said Derek.

 It tore at Stiles’ insides. Hurt so much. He couldn’t just exist, a nothing, to be forgotten and abandoned to his own misery.

“Eat,” said Derek. “You need to get better. You won’t unless you … get some … strength.”

He turned away from Stiles once more. Maybe he was disgusted. Stiles would be. If Derek had killed some kid who had had no choice in becoming a monster, Stiles would have been disgusted with him.

“You took me just to wind him up?” Stiles asked.

Derek’s eyes seemed wet. That was silly. What was there to get upset about?

“Eat,” said Derek. Then he went out the door and didn’t look back.

But Stiles didn’t need werewolf hearing to know he hadn’t gone far.

He cleared up the dropped plate and sat back on the bed.

They’d spent the remainder of the previous day watching TV and eating relatively healthy food. Stiles was pretty impressed with the food actually. If he’d caught his father eating it, he wouldn’t have minded. They hadn’t really done anything though. Peter hadn’t tried to talk to him again, at least not about his state of mind. Stiles had watched them all day, but they were always two steps ahead of him. When one went to get supplies, the other would sit beside Stiles, wide awake. They only slept when Stiles did. But Stiles knew he only had to wait them out. They couldn’t watch him forever.

The door opened and closed. Stiles didn’t look at who it was.

“I hear you’ve been a very naughty boy.”

He gave Peter exactly the look that the phrase deserved.

Peter smiled back at him. “Honestly, winding up my nephew like that when you know perfectly well that he’s a prude and in desperate, self-loathing love with you.”

The werewolf was holding a sports bag casually in one hand. When he put it down not too far from the door it made an ominous metallic noise, which told Stiles it wasn’t Peter’s gym kit.

“That’s a lie,” said Stiles, hoping his voice sounded bored. He really was a long way from bored at that moment, but he wasn’t going to let Peter know that if he could help it.

“No, Stiles,” said Peter, more seriously than Stiles could ever remember him speaking, “It’s not.”

Stiles felt a cruel sting in his eyes. “Well, even if that isn’t an ugly, ugly lie, then it should be!” said Stiles. “Derek shouldn’t!”

“Why?” asked Peter. He was standing back, either so he could watch Stiles more fully or in the hopes that the distance will enable Stiles to talk more.  Stiles decided it was irrelevant.

“I’m disgusting,” he said, fiercely and truthfully, “If he wants to use me, I don’t care, but he’s not going to save me. This isn’t a lifetime movie.”

Peter laughed. “No, it isn’t.”

He kept watching Stiles, but didn’t add anything.

“I’m going back to Theo, you know,” Stiles told him.

“No,” said Peter, “You’re not.”

“I have to,” said Stiles. “There’s nothing else.”

“I disagree,” Peter replied.

“Like your opinion counts,” said Stiles.

“You are suffering from PTSD, Stockholm Syndrome, depression and survivor’s guilt, among many other psychological complaints,” said Peter, “We will not be trusting your opinion on anything until you at least try to get better.”

“Stop making excuses!” Stiles snapped, “Don’t you get it? I’m not the person Derek knew! I’m no one! I…”

“You’re still one of the most incredible people I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet,” Peter interrupted.

There was a bare moment of silence.

“God, you’re creepy when you’re trying to be nice,” said Stiles.

Peter smiled.

“I brought something for you,” he said, nodding to the bag he’d entered with, sat innocuously near the door.

Stiles looked at the bag for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Pills?” he said, “For some of my many medical problems?”

Peter shook his head.

“A method to send creepy zombie werewolves to hell?” asked Stiles.

“No,” said Peter, “You would miss me if I weren’t around.”

“I really wouldn’t,” said Stiles, “Literally nobody would. You were dead for like, months, and no one cared.”

Peter smiled. Then suddenly he was on top of Stiles. Hands pinning Stiles’ arms to the bed, full weight on Stiles’ legs. Stiles gasped.

“You know how to get what you want, don’t you?” Peter purred in his ear. “You want someone to hurt you, so you do everything you can to hurt them. Keep it truthful, though, or it doesn’t work.”

Stiles bit his lip.

“Look at your face, all flushed,” Peter breathed. He pressed his face into Stiles’ neck. “You smell so wonderful. The want does stuff to us, you know? The smell of someone who wants us is better than any perfume to a werewolf. I could breathe it in all day.”

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles whispered, amazed the younger werewolf hadn’t stormed in.

Peter’s lips touched his neck. “He needed to calm down so I sent him for a run,” he told Stiles, voice gritty with promise. “He’ll be back in about an hour.” He lifted his face again, made powerful and terrifying eye contact with Stiles, “Why? Rethinking your death wish without your saviour so close?”

It was enough to make Stiles actually tremble. He didn’t know if Peter would kill him or not.

“Ah, there it is,” whispered Peter, “That tiny dot of fear. I was beginning to worry there was no self-preservation in you at all.”

“You wouldn’t kill me,” said Stiles, “Derek would…”

“Why would I care what Derek would do?” Peter asked, “He killed me already and yet here I am.”

Stiles didn’t know. Stiles didn’t know why Derek hadn’t killed Peter again.

“I killed his sister and he forgave me,” said Peter, “I could kill his little human crush and he’d have no one else to rely on in the whole word, but me.”  His teeth slowly grew, sharp and vicious and inches from Stiles’ chin.  “I think you should stay very, very still.”

Stiles did. His only movements were his breathing, and that was as light and shallow as it had ever been. Then he realised another part of him was moving. Even though he was terrified, his penis could do nothing but react.

He was a fucking disgrace. What sort of person got turned on by a zombie werewolf pinning them to a bed and threatening to kill them? He closed his eyes. He remembered that he wanted Lydia, all glorious hair and clever tongue. He wanted Malia, confused and strong but beautiful and feminine. But maybe he had never wanted them. Maybe he’d always been this monster, wanting to be raped and beaten and terrified. Maybe he’d chosen Lydia because she’d never look his way. Maybe he’d chosen Malia because she was an acceptable version of what he wanted.

“Ah,” said Peter, “Maybe you are the monster groupie after all. I’m going to add denial to your list.”

“Get off!” Stiles grunted.

“You don’t want me to,” Peter told him.

Stiles wanted to deny it. But he also didn’t.

“Hurt me,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Why?” asked Peter.

“Because I deserve it,” Stiles hissed.

“No,” said Peter.

“Please!”

“Not good enough.”

Burning tears stung at his eyes. “Then let me go back!”

“No,” said Peter, more quietly this time.

The frustration and anger made Stiles struggle as violently as he could. It made no difference to Peter. Stiles could move his body an inch either way, could clench his fists, could throw his head from side to side. But he couldn’t move any part that Peter was touching. He gave up with a groan of fury and exhaustion.

Peter was still watching him patiently. “Finished?” he asked.

“I hate you,” Stiles told him.

“But you find me strangely appealing too,” said Peter. “It’s normal.”

“No it fucking isn’t!”

“You must be so confused,” said Peter, “Still waking up to your sexual desires when you’re thrown into a world of monsters and danger, while you cling to your best friend’s definitions of good guys and bad guys.”

Stiles groaned again. He didn’t need understanding from Peter.

“It’s OK,” Peter cooed.

Then suddenly he wasn’t on Stiles any more. He was stood a few feet away, as though nothing had happened. Stiles began to doubt his own memories, except there was still evidence left over.

“I brought you something,” said Peter.

Stiles looked at him warily. He smiled back.

“Look in the bag,” he instructed, voice almost kind now. Like a parent with a child.

Stiles glared at the bag, hoping it would just fucking leave.

“I promise you will like it,” said Peter.

With all due caution, Stiles clambered gracelessly from the bed. He gave Pete the look he deserved, and went to the bag. He unzipped it with more care than he would defuse a bomb.

Surprisingly, he did like what was inside.

  

 

 

 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking such a long time and then only providing a very short chapter. I'm still plodding away. I will get there eventually!  
> Thanks again to all the lovely people who have commented! It makes my day every time I get a comment. x

“Where the fuck did you get manacles in the twenty first century?” asked Stiles, handling them with curiosity and admiration.

Peter continued to watch him eagerly. He was probably having fucked up thoughts. Stiles couldn’t help but wonder how Peter was so OK with being an evil dickhead.

“Where does one procure anything in the twenty first century?” the wolf replied, cockily.

Stiles nearly laughed, “Seriously? You Googled ‘manacles,’?”

“Please,” said Peter, “Don’t suggest I’m some sort of ignorant amateur.”

The breath in Stiles’ throat froze and burned at the same time.  He made eye contact with Peter. “You’re a fucking psychopath, you know.”

Peter shook his head, but held the eye contact. To be caught in that look was like falling. “Far from it.”

Stiles didn’t argue again. Instead he tore his eyes away to look back at the manacles in the bag. “Would they hold someone like you?” he asked, casually.

Peter laughed, apparently genuinely surprised. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “And here was I under the impression that you were begging to be tied down yourself.”

Stiles shrugged. “Just curious,” he said.

Peter laughed again. “And if I let myself fall asleep at the wrong moment, will I find myself curiously bound to the bed?”

“Fuck, no,” said Stiles. “Not the bed! Nothing so comfortable for you.”

Peter grinned at him, as though it were the best joke in the world. “I think I might enjoy that,” he said, “But I suspect you’ll be focusing back on my nephew before we get the chance.”

Stiles frowned. “I know you’re like, seventy, but I didn’t have you down as senile, just yet,” he said. “It was your daughter I was dating, dude.”

“Because you weren’t ready to accept how you felt for Derek,” said Peter, “And now you think you’re too evil for Derek, so you’re flirting with me. A lesser man might not take that as well as me, you know.”

“There are lesser men than you?” Stiles asked, because he didn’t know want to acknowledge anything else Peter had said, and it was an insult. Peter deserved insults at all times.

Infuriatingly, Peter ignored the insult. “You’ll figure it out eventually, that you two could not be more sickeningly perfect for each other. In your damaged, self-hating, guilt-ridden ways, you would be teaching each other to forgive yourselves, etcetera, etcetera, like some pathetic romance story, but I am not above taking advantage in the meantime. Please, feel free to chain yourself to any item in my hotel room. I’ve put a do not disturb sign on the door, paid extra for housekeeping to forget about us for a while, so we won’t be disturbed. Then again, I don’t think that interruptions would bother you, anyway, would they?”

Stiles glanced about the room. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

“And what were you planning on doing to me when you had me at your mercy?” he asked.

Peter sat casually in a chair, and once more got out a tablet computer. “Now, where would the fun be in telling?” he said. “Though, I might point out that there is absolutely nothing I could do to you while you were bound that I couldn’t do any moment I chose, anyway.”

Stiles shrugged at that. He knew it was true. He probably should have realised how fucked up he was when he’d first decided to surround himself with people so much stronger than him, against whom he had no defence.

But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Now was the time to make decisions. If he chained himself up in Peter’s hotel room, he wouldn’t be getting back to Theo any time soon. But then, Peter might be better at punishing him than Theo. Peter was older and at least as vicious, maybe more. And the idea of doing this, of being trapped and immobile, sent an addicting sort of thrill through Stiles. It wasn’t a happy feeling, it wasn’t even positive, but he wanted to feel more of it. He wanted to chase the tingle and feed it until it became a wave. Something overwhelming enough to remove everything else.

He opened one of the manacles and placed it around his left wrist. It was cold and heavy and clicked shut ominously. Stiles’ whole body twitched, his mouth going dry.

“Um, you have got the key to these, right?” Stiles asked, admittedly slightly later than he should have.

“Of course,” said Peter. “Do you need some help?”

Another thrill, another twitch, another feeling of want. “You’re a dickwad,” Stiles muttered, not caring that Peter could hear.

“Now, now,” said Peter. “There’s no need for rudeness. I might take it as a sign you want a lesson in manners.”

Stiles was so fucked up. Because he kind of wanted that.  He held his ground, though. “I wasn’t aware mass-murdering zombie psychopaths had any sort of belief in social niceties. I’d give up on that, if I were you. It makes you sound like a soap villain.”

Peter didn’t reply. When Stiles followed his gaze, he realised he was looking at the door, which, within moments, was thrown open violently enough that it shook in its hinges.

Derek looked sweaty and glorious. His muscles were framed magnificently by his tank top. His face was coloured an ugly red.

“What the fuck is this?” Derek shouted.

Stiles stood still. He had a feeling whatever happened next wouldn’t be anything he had control of.

“I’m giving the boy what he wants, Derek,” said Peter.

“He doesn’t know what he wants!” Derek cried, “You disgusting fuck!”

Stiles stayed perfectly still.

“I don’t hear him complaining,” said Peter.

“Because he’s sick!” Derek growled. “You are a cockroach! The lowest of the low!”

Peter shrugged. “Before you get violent, Derek, you might want to remember that it’s not me you’re angry with.” He ignored Derek’s furious growling, “You want to kill Theo, you want to punish Scott for letting this happen, you want to punish yourself, more…”

“I’m going to rip your throat out,” said Derek.

“And you’re angry at Stiles because you’ve been holding yourself back for years because you thought you were too old and broken, and now you think he’d actually entertain the idea of letting me touch him, someone so much older and so much more broken than you,” Peter shook his head, sadly, “You’re so angry you can hardly speak, but it’s not with me.”

Derek charged, but Peter had expected it. Derek crashed into the wall as Peter stepped quickly onto the other side of Stiles.

“And you’re not an alpha anymore, Derek,” Peter told him, airily, “We’re both betas. But I’m more experienced at fighting than you, and more willing to fight dirty. You will not beat me.”

“I can try,” said Derek, though he didn’t charge. Stiles was between them, and he still hadn’t moved.

“You should take some time to calm down,” said Peter.

For a moment, looking at Derek reminded Stiles of watching a storm through a window. He was witnessing all that destructive fury, while feeling pretty confident he wasn’t going to be touched by it.

“Get out!” Derek growled.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ll be outside,” he said.  “You’ll call me back in no time.”

Peter nodded at Stiles, and, hands casually in his pockets, he ambled out of the room.  He left Derek simmering to himself, and Stiles staring, his own stomach a nasty ball of ice. The tension that had been building up nicely within Stiles, with nowhere to go, turned to something floppy and uncomfortable.

Derek was a mess of confused energy. Stiles watched him but only in his peripheral vision. He stayed still, small.

“You …” Derek’s fingers flinched, as though he were about to make a fist but couldn’t. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

The floppy, uncomfortable thing in Stiles’ stomach drooped lower, pathetic and pointless.

Derek’s twitching, nervous fingers made a jerky movement at Stiles’ wrist. “I’ll take … that … off,” he said.

Stiles looked at the manacle. It was snug and heavy. He didn’t want it gone. It was holding him down, now. If it went, he’d float away.

He brought the wrist to his body, protectively.

Derek aborted his movements. His anger had died the moment Peter had left, and now he was anxiety and misery. Stiles didn’t want to be here, looking at something else to blame himself for. Bringing more guilt to a man who deserved a chance for happiness, who’d had enough misery for a few lifetimes.

He shuffled away, made no eye contact. He didn’t speak.

“Stiles…”

Derek was shit at talking at the best of times. And Stiles wasn’t about to help him. He was going to let Derek flounder until he gave up. It was better than encouraging him to care and letting him get hurt.

“I want to help you, Stiles,” Derek said, eventually, in a quiet voice, like he didn’t quite believe it.

Stiles didn’t answer. There were a million sarcastic responses on his tongue, but they were pointless.

“Stiles,” Derek groaned.

“Can I go?” Stiles asked.

Derek blinked. “Where?” he asked, in a cracked voice.

“Back to Theo,” said Stiles. “Obviously.”

Derek looked at the floor. “No,” he said.

Stiles hadn’t expected any other answer. So he climbed back onto the bed, and lay facing away from Derek. He closed his eyes and pretended it wasn’t real. Derek didn’t try to stop him.

He lay for long moments. He could still hear Derek. Every few moments, he heard the wolf move, maybe go to speak. Stiles didn’t react to him.  Within minutes, Derek had marched out the door. The room was left still and quiet, and Stiles was finally alone, looking at the darkness behind his eyelids, and gripping the single manacle on his wrist.

“Why?”

Derek’s voice pierced Stiles’ darkness, the slight dream amongst the black oblivion, making sense to him even through the closed door.

“Derek, I know I’ve told you about full sentences before…”

Peter. Sarcastic and close.

“Why doesn’t he trust me?”

Stiles kept his breathing steady, hoping his heart wouldn’t give him away, and listened. Werewolves, underestimating human hearing.

Peter made a thoughtful noise, between a sigh and a hum. “That isn’t the right question,” he said.

“For f…” Derek growled, annoyed or angry or something, but he held himself back. “Why does he trust you?”

“Derek, Stiles trusts you to behave like you and me to behave like me,” said Peter. “He knows you won’t hurt him. You’ll keep him at arm’s length and tell yourself you’re keeping him safe from everyone, particularly yourself, even though you are no threat to him.” A soft groan of wood suggested one of them was moving uncomfortably. “And he trusts me to do whatever I want whenever I want, but generally respect his consent.”

“Consent?” Derek repeated, with disgust, “He can’t give consent, he’s…”

“Eighteen,” Peter finished for him. “He’s legally old enough to make his own choices in every country that I’m aware of. Many places, considered civilized enough, would have considered him a legal adult for more than two years, already. And, I’m pretty sure Stiles could have told you where to go for himself if he wanted long before then.”

A few seconds passed before Derek growled, “He’s not well!”

“Hmm,” said Peter, “Maybe. But he’s not broken.”

Both were quiet for a moment. Stiles kept still, too, still listening.

“I heard you both before,” said Derek, “He was … insulting you…”

Peter laughed. “Yes, he was. The little shit.”

“But it was just like he used to be,” said Derek. “Before. When he called me sourwolf and … and called me out on my bullshit and … and…”

“And you’re wondering why he’s like that with me and not with you?” asked Peter, but it didn’t sound like a question. He didn’t raise the pitch of his voice at the end of his words.

Derek didn’t reply. Maybe he nodded. Stiles could only hear through the door.

“I think…” Peter began slowly, “It’s because he sees me as a villain.”

A moment of silence followed once again. Stiles didn’t know if Derek would agree or disagree with the sentiment, but he was curious to find out.

Peter laughed. “I know, he should have grown out of expecting life to follow the patterns of children’s stories. Someone as clever as him, still considering people baddies and goodies, seems laughable, doesn’t it? No, don’t answer that. His father brought him up to believe that there is law. Of course, Stiles pushes the limits all the time, it’s almost an obsession with him. He plays with morality and he’ll never admit to it crossing his mind, but he still believes in right and wrong. And I killed a lot of people, which makes me wrong. And now, he’s killed someone, so he’s wrong too. He’s like me.”

“He’s nothing like you!”

The passion in Derek’s voice took Stiles by surprise.

“I know,” said Peter, quietly. “But that’s what he sees. You’re the tragic hero and I’m the villain. He wanted you, but now he’s only worthy of me. Or Theo.”

Another pause. Stiles realised his eyes were hot and wet, but he made no move to wipe them.

“He doesn’t really want me,” Peter clarified. “Not as a partner. But he at least feels like he’s my equal.”

“He’s not like you!” Derek repeated, though this time, Stiles might not have believed him quite so readily. “He’s damaged. He’s mourning.”

“He is mourning,” Peter agreed, “But he’s not broken. Maybe you need to treat him like you normally do.”

Another pause, another wait, before Derek admitted “I don’t even know what that is.”

Stiles could have remembered, if he tried. He didn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles had done more sleeping than ever before. It probably had more to do with boredom than emotional turmoil. Until he escaped back to Theo, he was living a limbo of nothing with the Hales.

Not that he’d had a life with Theo, but at least there he’d known his place. He was Theo’s plaything. Submitting himself to the higher power, the natural role of humanity. That was surely the message of every religion, after all. Humanity was second. So Stiles submitted to the victor. Theo. But now, stuck in this hotel, he wasn’t even a spoil of war (or supernatural conflict, whatever). Now he was a useless burden to a man who didn’t deserve the misfortune of Stiles in his life. And said man’s creepy uncle.

He didn’t realise he’d yet again fallen asleep until he felt something warm and solid against his arm. He scrunched his eyes closed, tightly, then opened them. It was still light, and there was Derek, beautiful face up close and painted with concern.

“Derek...” Stiles began, ready to push him away verbally.

Derek put a hand on his mouth. Stiles stared in surprise.

“No,” said Derek. “You always get to talk. Normally, I let you because you’re clever in amongst all the crap, but right now, you’re being stupid.”

Stiles protested. It didn’t work because there was a hand on his mouth.

“Stiles,” Derek said, “You’ve gotta snap out of it.”

“That’s not how you talk around people with depression!” Stiles tried to snap. It came out as a series of what sounded like ‘Muh’s.

“Shut up,” said Derek. “You have done nothing wrong. You are still you, and you are still one of the best people I know.”

Stiles scowled, because Derek was being stupid, but Stiles couldn’t complain about it with a firm hand still on his mouth.

“Stiles… I … I …”

Stuttering, pointless. Derek was shit at talking. It was fucking frustrating.

“You’re not a villain,” Derek managed to get out, making Stiles roll his eyes. He’d heard Peter’s piece. Just because Peter said it, didn’t mean it was true. In fact, generally it meant the opposite.

Derek blinked, and looked at the covers beside Stiles’ head, “You’re… basically … the only good thing that’s happened in my life since … since… you know… and… and I’m hardly Snow fucking White. I killed my uncle for revenge! I brought the woman who murdered my family into our home!”

And regretted it so much that he let the man who murdered his sister not only back into his life but into his pack, and never let anyone worthy in to his heart, Stiles thought.

“My point is…” Derek tried, “Look, I know what it’s like to hate yourself so much that you think you don’t deserve a life. I know that hatred, but, Stiles, I’m telling you, you don’t deserve to feel that way.”

Which was basically the longest monologue Derek had ever given. And Stiles wanted to laugh at it, because it was a lie. Stiles was the one worthy of hating. Derek was … Derek.

Derek deserved a chance at life. The chance that had been stolen by first Kate Argent, then Peter Hale, then an evil druid pretending to be an English teacher. Stiles was not going to be the next in a long list of people who hurt Derek Hale.

Stiles destroyed everything he saw and everyone he loved, whether he chose to or not. Stiles was a bad person. He’d had everything he should have needed for a good life – a loving mother and father, a stable home, brains enough to do well at school. Along the way, he’d fucked it all up.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, “I can tell you’re not hearing me.”

Stiles pulled Derek’s hands away from his mouth. “That's because you’re not talking sense,” he said, now he could move his lips.

“I am!” Derek protested. “You’re the one who’s confused.”

Stiles shook his head. He was always right. Almost always right. Usually. He’d let Scott not agree with him about Theo and that had all gone to shit.

“Stiles, you killed in self-defence. If anyone else had done that, what would you have said?”

Stiles shrugged.

“Would it help if I threw you against a wall and threatened to rip your throat out?” Derek asked.

Stiles eyes widened. Derek’s did too, “No, I won’t…” he protested. “It was just, Peter was saying I… should treat you like I always did, and that… was what I remembered…”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Seriously, you’re listening to Peter, now?” he said, “You do remember that, eighty percent of what he says is total BS, right?”

With a huff, Derek managed, “I’m not the one who was flirting with him.”

“Yeah, because I really don’t give a shit if he lives or dies,” said Stiles.

Derek’s jaw dropped. Just a bit. It was massively satisfying.

“Look, Derek,” said Stiles, “This whole attempt to rescue me was sweet, and all, but I gotta get back. Theo won. And that’s OK, but you getting hurt is not. OK? You’ve gotta go back wherever it was you were and break the habit of a lifetime and find someone to love who doesn’t want to kill everyone you know. Or, you know, go to college or something. Whatever it is werewolves do to win at life. But move on, dude. Leave me and your creepy zombie uncle to our respective miserable fates of whatever, and get a life.”

“You’re such an idiot!” Derek snapped. “You think you know everything! But you know nothing!”

“You can talk, Mr hides out in teenager’s bedrooms…”

“Shut up!” Derek growled.  “You saved my life! So many times! And Scott’s, too, and everyone’s!”

“That doesn’t…” Stiles protests.

“What if Theo doesn’t win?” Derek asked.

Stiles’ throat seemed to catch itself closed for a moment. “He already has,” he managed.

“No,” said Derek. “If I kill him, then I win.”

“No!” Stiles cried, his hands catching Derek’s shoulders.

“If I win, will you stay with me?” Derek asked.

“But…!” Stiles protested, his heart a knot of fear unlike any he’d experienced. It wasn’t panic so much as it was misery.

Derek frowned, “You would stop me killing him, even though he brought all this misery?”

Stiles gasped. “No!” he cried, “I don’t… I don’t care what happens to him!”

“Then what?” asked Derek.

Stiles’ mouth was dry, his throat a wreck, as though he’d been shouting for hours. He could barely get words out. “You!” he managed.

Derek stared for long moments. His face suddenly seemed so close that Stiles couldn’t bare it. He couldn’t let him go to his death, and standing against Theo could have no other outcome. Derek needed to survive! Stiles had to make him survive. Maybe… maybe he just needed…

Maybe he could forget about Stiles if he just got him out of his system

Stiles surged forward. His mouth hit Derek’s at the wrong angle, sideways on, but Stiles made it work by clinging onto Derek’s hair desperately. He pulled the rest of his body up against Derek’s. It wasn’t difficult. He’d wanted to do this as a stupid high school kid. He still wanted to.

Derek froze. When he put his strong hands on Stiles’ torso, they might have been about to push Stiles away, but Stiles was clinging on tight, and kissing as though his life depended on it. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing, but he knew that Derek’s life depended on him doing this really well. He threw one of his own arms around Derek’s neck, and pressed his scrawny body against Derek’s beautiful muscled chest, his legs scrabbling to keep up, to get him to the right place. He pulled at the werewolf, and felt Derek’s arms shift, one onto his back, one sliding down to his thighs. They felt glorious there.

Derek pushed him back down onto the bed. Stiles went with it, because he wanted to be there. His brain was getting confused. He was meant to be doing this to keep Derek alive, not to enjoy it. He wasn’t meant to enjoy things. That was for other people. This was so Derek would get his piece and leave him alone. He couldn't quite keep hold of that fact.

He let himself fall onto his back, tugging Derek with him, hand tangling in his hair, trying to keep him as close as possible, to keep those lips on his. Derek groaned, loudly, fingers digging into Stiles’ leg, pulling it around his waist.

“God, Stiles,” he moaned into Stiles’ mouth, even as Stiles chased the moving lips, “You’re amazing!”

Stiles squirmed, breathlessly.

“Every part of you,” Derek breathed. “You send… my whole body… it’s … amazing.”

Stiles understood. This wasn’t just about his dick. When he was with Malia, she was pretty and everything, and his dick was interested, but with Derek, every inch of his body quivered. It was like his entire skin was on fire. He couldn’t get enough of Derek’s touch. He writhed like crazy.

But he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this.

“Stiles,” Derek groaned.

Stiles moaned. His body was a quivering mess. The needs he’d felt with Peter, earlier, were nothing to this all consuming passion.

And this was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. How could he give up these feelings? How could he forget about the feeling of Derek’s heat above him? The tingles from his head to his toes, the quiver in his fingers, the taste of that mouth, the feeling of right. If Derek felt a quarter of what Stiles was feeling right now, he’d never be happy with just one fuck.

And then their groins met and thought became impossible.

He heard Derek groan again, his voice heavy with lust. “Stiles, are you sure?” he asked. As though Stiles were in enough control to make any more decisions about anything at that point. Stiles hoped his groan was enough confirmation.

It was. His shirt was being tugged off his head, and Derek’s mouth escaped from his. He protested, but in seconds the mouth had descended to his neck. He’d never thought of his neck as an erogenous zone, but those lips were fucking incredible. They smoothed a trail, exciting tendons and muscles, and then teeth nipped at his collar bone and Stiles was a puddle of mushy desire.  

What followed was the best sex Stiles had ever had. Admittedly, his comparisons were not great competition, but every moment Derek was touching him, he felt like he was flying, like his body was ready to explode and it would be the best way to go anyone could ever imagine. When his orgasm hit, he could have blacked out. He was definitely insensible for a long time. And the whole time, Derek was beside him, inside him, surrounding him, touching him.

An age later, he came back to himself. He remembered who he was, a stupid evil boy who brought misery and death to all who loved him, and who had just committed his worse dead to date. Derek Hale, the man who’d suffered enough for three lifetimes before he was thirty, was lying beside him, gazing at him like he was special, and good and not a creature fit only for hell.

Stiles rolled away from Derek.

“Don’t,” said Derek.

“Don’t what?” said Stiles as he sat on the bed with his back turned.

“Don’t pretend that wasn’t perfect,” said Derek, “Don’t pretend you want to go back to him.”

Stiles shook his head, “I don’t want to, I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” said Derek. “You can stay with me.”

An itchy tear escaped Stiles’ eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said.

“Then explain,” said Derek.

Stiles shrugged. “I hurt people, Derek.”

“No…”

“Everyone I love gets hurt,” Stiles insisted, truthfully. “I can’t let that happen to you.”

“Stiles,” Derek protested, “The only way you can hurt me is by leaving me.”

Stiles shook his head and searched for his clothes.

“Stiles,” Derek repeated, but Stiles had no interest in making eye contact. He found pants, he found the door.

“Please,” said Derek.

Though his heart was crumbling, Stiles walked out on the man he might love and didn’t look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...? Maybe. If I get round to it.


End file.
